


Renegotiation

by CaitlinFairchild



Series: Somatic Theory [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, BDSM, Dom!John, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Porn With Plot, Relationship Issues, Romance, Spanking, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bedroom door opens and closes. The bedside lamp clicks on. A warm rough hand cards gently through his hair.</p><p>“My good boy,” John murmurs from behind him, and reaches for the side table drawer. He finds his collar and fastens it quickly with one practiced hand, stroking and petting his hair with the other. He sinks down carefully to his knees behind Sherlock, presses his clothed body into his back. The friction of fabric against his naked skin is delightful, makes a shiver run down his spine.</p><p>“I was afraid, and I shouldn’t have been,” John breathes into his ear. ”If you trust me, I will trust you.” He kisses the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, bites him there gently. “You were right. I was keeping myself from you, and I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I owe you a thousand apologies for that. And I will offer every one to you, I will. Later. But for now…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renegotiation

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, guys. These two are going to places I never even anticipated.
> 
> I already have ideas for the next two installments. This series could conceivably go on forever.
> 
> Un-beta'd, Un-Britpicked. I'm getting lazy about that stuff again, and I want to get this posted. All mistakes and/or cringing failures of story or characterization are mine.
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr if you like:  
>    
> [Caitlinisactuallyawritersname](http://caitlinisactuallyawritersname.tumblr.com/)
> 
> or hit me up at CaitlinFairchild1976@gmail.com.
> 
>  
> 
> A million thanks to everyone for reading. You're the very best.

“I want you to hit me,” Sherlock says apropos of nothing as he and John peruse the dinner menu.

John’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline and his face instantly flushes deep pink, but to his credit he somehow barely manages to not choke on his drink. Swallowing carefully, John sets his wine glass down and takes a breath before answering.

“We’re on a case, aren’t we,” he replies in a low, even tone suited to the hushed ambience of a very expensive restaurant. “For some reason you lied and said your parents are in town, but we’re here on a case and you need a diversion. Dammit, you could have just told me ahead of--”

“No, we’re really having dinner with my parents,” said Sherlock, “and also Mycroft, dreadful and tedious though he may be, because you said you want me to,”--he sketches air quotes with his fingers--“ ‘make an effort’ . No, I mean for my birthday. You asked me what I wanted--”

John’s brow creases in honest confusion. “That was two days ago. And you ignored me in favour of whatever it was you were doing to that dead pigeon.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you. I was thinking.” For the entirety of those two days Sherlock has been thinking--about this thing, the one thing he really wanted. He hadn’t really intended to bring it up tonight, but he seems to have a longstanding habit of questionable behaviour in restaurants and that impulse has seemingly once again gotten the better of him. He decides he’s too far in to back out now, takes a sip of the really excellent Syrah, and plows on before he can come to his senses and lose his nerve.

“And I’ve decided that for my birthday, I want you to hit me.” Sherlock gathers his last shreds of bravado, gazing directly into John’s surprised blue eyes. “Spank me, to be more precise. With your hand. On my bare arse.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, do you not realise--” John realises he’s getting loud, and makes a visible effort to modulate his tone. “Do you not realise that we are in a extremely posh restaurant waiting for your family to arrive for an extremely posh birthday dinner? How could you possibly think this is a good time to discuss--”

 _No, really not a good time at all,_ the rational part of Sherlock’s mind concurs, but the other part of his brain, the part that has been thinking about this topic and little else for two days, seems to have taken firm hold of the steering wheel and is careening crazily down the highway of bad choices.

“I believe birthday spankings are a tradition, aren’t they?” Sherlock continues as if John hasn’t even spoken. “That’s what my research indicates. So it would seem a fitting way to introduce--”

“Okay,” John says, shaking his head in disbelief. “First of all, we have a firm no hitting limit--”

“Well, then, I’m requesting we renegotiate our limits,” Sherlock replies, undeterred.

“Second of all,” John continues, “your parents and brother will be here any moment now. I may be a grown man, but I do not want to have to look your mother in the eye knowing we were talking about-- _this_ \--two minutes prior. So we’re _not._ ” John cranes his neck to look toward the front of the restaurant. “Where are they, anyway?”

Sherlock snorts.“My father left his cardigan in the back of a cab. I’m sure Mycroft has the entirety of MI-5 combing the city of London for it.” He gracefully but not very subtly slides closer to John, crowds him against the side of the cosy, high-backed banquette and leans in close. “They won’t be here for ages…”

In this close proximity Sherlock is able to appreciate how very delectable John smells, ordinary shampoo and Old Spice deodorant merging with the not-quite musky tang of his skin, becoming something unique and special that never fails to make Sherlock’s pulse tick just a bit higher despite years of familiarity. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in, feeling a spark of hot arousal flicker low in his belly.

“So,” he says, dropping his voice to a low silky purr, feeling John’s thigh warm against his own. “There’s no reason not to pass the time by continuing this conversation.” 

No one’s even paying attention, John’s right next to him, and it would be nothing at all to--

“Sherlock--” John murmurs warningly as Sherlock slips his large warm hand under the table and begins to purposefully stroke graceful fingers along John’s thigh. “What the hell is it with you and posh restaurants, anyway?”

(If he has a couple of drinks in him, John will readily disclose that the pair of them have been banned from three of London’s finest eating establishments for less-than-gentlemanly behaviour; all incidents were, of course, entirely instigated by his utterly mad, increasingly handsy fiancé. For his part, Sherlock will tell you two of the restaurants have ongoing rodent problems and the third is buying its seafood from an exceedingly dubious source, and a ban is meaningless if one would never willingly darken their doorsteps again. Anyway, none of this is conclusive proof that Sherlock Holmes has some kind of restaurant-specific exhibitionist kink. Not at all.)

“I’ve been thinking about it for two days,” Sherlock purrs into his ear, long fingers sliding in between John’s thighs. “Me stretched out on your lap, pants pulled down, writhing and struggling as your hand comes down hard on my--”

“Jesus, Sherlock. Stop. It. Now.” John gives a tiny involuntary gasp as Sherlock’s fingers begin to stroke the length of his rapidly hardening cock.

“You may have set a limit,” Sherlock murmurs. “But not all of your body parts seem to agree.”

John exhales shakily. “You are such a fucking bastard,” he breathes, his hips involuntarily nudging upward just a bit, pushing his erection into Sherlock’s insistent grip. The feel of the warm smooth flesh against his hand threatens to undo the last vestiges of Sherlock's self control, and what began as an impulsive statement is rapidly becoming a very deliberate seduction.

 _Okay,_ Sherlock admits to himself. _I may in fact have some kind of restaurant kink._

“I really am,” he agrees, looking up through his lashes with his best come-hither expression as he tightens his fingers around John’s cock and gives him a slow, deliberate pull. John exhales shakily and closes his eyes as Sherlock brings his lips close to his ear.

“Imagine the sound of it,” he whispers. “The smack of your hand against the round part of my arse you like so much. The noises I would make for you--”

John sucks in a deep breath, opens his eyes. “No,” he says resolutely. ”I am not getting thrown out of another restaurant.” He plucks Sherlock’s hand off his groin and places it firmly on the linen-covered table. “Okay,” he grits out, “Listen. If I say we’ll talk about it later, will you please stop molesting me?”

“Promise?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes. But right now you need to stop. Behave yourself, for God’s sake. _Dinner with your parents_.”

“I just wanted to put the idea out there,” Sherlock rumbles with his wickedest grin. “Give you a mental picture to work with.”

“Oh God,” sighs John. “You’ve gone from monk to sex maniac in eighteen months. I’ve created a monster.”

“You do flatter yourself, John,” Sherlock murmurs.

“I notice you don’t deny it, though,” John points out. Sherlock arches an eyebrow but says nothing.

“Why are you even bringing this up?” John asks, then in the next moment shakes his head and gives a soft groan. “You dickhead. You deliberately brought this up right before your parents arrived, didn’t you? So I would think about... that... all through dinner.”

“No,” Sherlock asserts. “I can see why you would think that, but I swear it wasn’t deliberate. I am, however, more than pleased with that outcome, of course.” The corner of his mouth twitches up in amusement as he scans the room, eyes landing on the lovely grey haired woman striding towards them like a flowy, flowered battleship at sea, a harried-looking Mycroft and his always serenely cheerful dad following a half step behind her. “Oh look,” he says, a wicked gleam in his eye. “There’s Mummy.”

John sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says warningly, “You play dirtier than anyone I’ve ever known, and you are absolutely going to pay for this little stunt later tonight.”

“Please,” Sherlock scoffs without heat. “You’re a forty-four year old man. My mother will undoubtedly talk you into eating dessert. You’re going to be so carb-loaded you’ll fall asleep in your armchair ten minutes after we get home. You won’t even get your shoes off tonight, let alone me.”

John opens his mouth to argue, considers, and shrugs in bemused concession. “Sherlock Holmes,” he amends, “you are absolutely going to pay for this little stunt tomorrow night.”

***

Both of them are correct, as it turns out.

***

Late the next evening, Sherlock lay sprawled half on top of John, sweaty and sticky and blissfully content.

“Ugh, shove over,” John grumbles without rancor. “Honestly, your anatomy is somehow ninety percent elbow.”

Sherlock grunts and gracelessly slides off his (better padded and very comfortable) lover, tucking himself into the crook between John’s arm and torso.

“Learned your lesson, then, pet?” John says with a soft grin as he slides a finger under Sherlock’s collar and tugs him up for a lazy, sated kiss.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock murmurs, soft and pliant against the press of his lips.

“And what’s the lesson, then?”

“If I misbehave in restaurants, you reward me.” Sherlock replies with the barest hint of a smirk.

“I may have not thought this through completely,” admits John with an edge of amusement, kissing him again, dipping his tongue into Sherlock’s open and willing mouth.

Sherlock sighs as John ends the kiss, burrowing against his warm soft body. He feels John bring his left hand up to unbuckle his collar and he gives the minutest shake of his head; sometimes he needs a little more time before he gives it up. John drops his hand without comment, drops a kiss into his tangled curls.

“Okay, love,” he murmurs quietly. “Time to talk to me about what you brought up in the restaurant.”

“Exactly what I said last night,” Sherlock replies. “I want you to hit me.”

“Why?” John asks.

“Because I enjoy the other things we do,” Sherlock says. He keeps his voice carefully neutral, even though he knows John can see through to how unnerved this quiet, honest conversation is making him, how exposed he feels without flippant, flirtatious bravado to hide behind. 

“I like… I think I would like to know how it feels when you hit me. I mean, in that context.” he turns his head further, speaking against the warm skin of John’s ribcage. “I like the things that hurt. I like that a lot. I... in those moments, pain simplifies everything. It’s difficult to explain, but it’s a very freeing thing for me. And I want more of that.”

“Sweetheart. I… ” John pauses, considers his next words. “When you came back, from... before. I hit you. I hit you in anger and frustration. More than once. I regret that immensely. I swore to myself I would never hit you in anger again.”

“What I’m asking for, it wouldn’t be anger,” Sherlock says.

“I know, but…” John stops, pauses in consideration. “Okay, I admit that when we started this, I didn’t know where we would end up. But I like where we are. What we have is good. It’s brilliant. It works for us. I don’t want to risk that. Also, what about…” he runs a hand over Sherlock’s back, over the pale scars that have faded but will never entirely disappear. The intent behind the gesture is clear.

“I think it would be a good thing,” offers Sherlock after a moment of consideration.

“How do you figure?”

“Feeling pain at your hands... it would be overlay those negative memories, maybe.”

“You don’t know that,” John counters.

“I know it would be a completely different experience,” Sherlock replies with calm certainty. “I can’t explain it fully, but you have to trust me on this.”

“It feels… ” John trails off, lost momentarily in thought. “I don’t know. It feels dangerous to me. Like crossing a line.”

Sherlock picks up John’s hand, kisses it. “You’ve used this hand to cut into me with a scalpel and barely blinked, yet asking you to smack my bum in a controlled scenario is somehow more dangerous?”

“It’s a line in the sand,” John counters. “It may be arbitrary, but most of them are.”

 _It’s not arbitrary, not at all,_ Sherlock thinks, but he’s still in that calm submissive space where he wouldn’t dream of arguing with John, so he remains quiet.

The silence unspools between them as John considers.

“Look,” John says. “You’ve made some good points, and I‘m very glad you told me what you want--though the setting was maybe not what I would have picked--and I’m not saying no. Okay? I’m just saying, this is something that changes things for me. For us. But I’m not saying no.” John yawns hugely, then kisses the top of Sherlock’s head. “Can we table this for tonight? I’m really tired.”

“All right,” Sherlock says quietly.

“Do you want your collar off?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “In the morning.” He sleeps better with it on, sleeps better when John tells him to.

John chuckles a bit but doesn’t say anything, just slides down a bit and kisses his neck right where his pale skin peeks out above black leather.

“As you wish, love. Go to sleep, now.”

Sherlock does.

***

The next night finds them in Feltham, staked out behind an especially pungent skip at the back door of an exceptionally dodgy cafe, where the brother of their missing con man supposedly attends a weekly poker game.

John draws his knees up to his chest and leans his back against the cold brick, trying to find a comfortable position three hours into the enterprise. Sherlock holds himself quietly through sheer force of will, trying hard to not acknowledge that he feels every bit as damp and chilled and uncomfortable as John looks.

John glances up and down the trash-strewn alley and blows out a small sigh of boredom. He looks over at Sherlock, quirks an eyebrow.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says.

“You just did,” Sherlock points out a bit peevishly. His feet are cold and he’s getting the sinking feeling the poker-playing brother is going to be yet another dead end in a frustrating case full of dead ends.

“Pedantic git,” John murmurs good-naturedly. “Okay, I just wondered if... when you were in school. Did they, um, employ corporal punishment?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in annoyance. “Yes, John, because it’s not really my fortieth birthday. I am turning one hundred and sixty three and attended public school _in Victorian England._ ” 

John knows him well (too well, one could argue) and is no longer easily blustered past with sarcasm.

“See, that wasn’t actually an answer,” he observes.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow in acknowledgment of John’s perceptiveness. “All right, yes. It occurred occasionally. It was fairly uncommon when I attended school, and banned entirely in 1999.”

“So did you ever, um…”

“Yes. Twice. Headmaster’s office, three strokes, over clothing. I can’t even remember why anymore. I was young. Eleven. Really didn’t make much of an impact, pardon the pun.”

“What was it like?” John asked. 

“The headmaster was a shouty sort, liked gin, having an affair with the school nurse. The hitting part itself? Not terribly painful. Mostly humiliating.” Sherlock’s lips twitch into a wry grin. “I know where you’re going with this, and while yes, we both know I have a bit of a... thing, I would like to think think the roots of my proclivities are a bit more complex and subtle than the banalities of British schoolboy perversions.”

John tilts his head to the side, nods in agreement. “You’re probably right. I was just curious.”

“Although popular lore holds the public school systems are a hotbed of deviance,” Sherlock notes, “my experiences were really quite unremarkable. I rarely got into any sort of trouble.”

John opens his mouth to say something; Sherlock holds up a hand. “I know,” he says. “Yes, I was quiet and mostly well-behaved as a child, and I don’t know why people find this hard to believe.”

“Probably because you’re rude, flout the rules constantly and have no respect for authority,” John answers with an air of amused disbelief.

“All those traits manifested later in life, when I figured out most adults are morons. In school, I was introverted and painfully shy, so I kept almost entirely to myself. And as far as schoolboy experimentation goes, well, it completely passed me by.”

“Well. Um. Good to know, I guess,” says John, looking up at the night sky, seemingly a bit at a loss for words.

“Although,” Sherlock says musingly, “there was quite a bit of sodomy.”

John’s head whips back to him so quickly Sherlock fears whiplash. His eyes are wide and stricken, and Sherlock can’t help but giggle.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock gasps. “I’m having you on. Honestly, I escaped with my innocence completely intact. No one even wanted to have _lunch_ with me at school, much less that sort of thing.”

John’s face relaxes and he laughs, heedless of the racket he’s making until Sherlock remembers and shushes him. The sound of it seems to drive away the chill of the fetid air, makes Sherlock feel warm all over. 

“But, did it happen at all?” John asks. “In public schools. The sodomy, I mean, in general.”

“Well,” Sherlock concedes, “yes, there was _some._ ”

For some reason this makes John giggle all over again. Which makes Sherlock start giggling all over again, although he’s not entirely sure what he said that was funny.

Looking at John’s open, laughing face, Sherlock realises for the thousandth time how desperately in love he is with this man, so devoted to him it sometimes seems like merely getting married is not nearly enough. He’s almost overcome by the sudden, fierce desire to give himself over to John entirely, to kneel in front of him in desperate supplication, to spend long hours in worshipful adoration at his feet.

It occurs to him that these are possibly not quite normal feelings. He doesn’t care.

John’s laughter fades into the evening damp as he raises an eyebrow, looks at him quizzically. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks. “Have I got something on my face?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock says. “I just like looking at you. Possibly one of the reasons I agreed to marry you.”

Jon smiles, pleased and almost shy. “Well, then,” he says. “Carry on, I suppose.”

Although the dampness turns into rain sometime around two a.m. and the brother never does turn up, Sherlock doesn’t even mind a bit.

***

The con man (and his accomplice brother) disappear two days later, likely to the Maldives and definitely with over three million ill-gotten pounds in his possession.

Disappointed and restless, Sherlock pokes desultorily at his violin while John types up some case notes (despite Sherlock’s eidetic memory, they often come in handy, later, though the detective would rather be strung up by his toes than admit it). John is just coming to the end of his scribbled pages when Sherlock lays down his instrument and gazes at John’s bent blond-silver head as he types in his painful two-finger style. Without a case to distract him, their conversation of four days ago returns to the forefront of his mind.

“You’re watching me,” John says without looking up. “Why are you watching me?”

“You want to,” Sherlock says musingly, “but you don’t want to want to. What can we deduce from that?”

John raises his head, looks at him with narrowed, searching eyes, and very deliberately closes the laptop and sets it aside. His head tilts to the left, his eyebrow raises just a fraction, his lips purse slightly.

 _Very well,_ his expression plainly says. _Let’s have it, then._

“You have a strong moral code,” says Sherlock. “Strict distinctions between right and wrong. However, you cross the lines you yourself draw on a regular basis. You’ve killed people, and with adequate justification you feel little remorse, yet you’re a healer, you’re invested in helping people. You have an anger problem and a violent streak that you struggle to suppress. You enjoy dominance, much more so than you initially anticipated, and while hitting is one of your hard limits, you enjoy inflicting other types of pain and injury without qualm. You voice a strong negative reaction to impact play, yet your autonomic responses suggest intense arousal.”

“Sherlock,” John exhales, low and uncertain. “You’re just telling me things I already know.”

Sherlock crosses the room and drops down to his knees in between John’s spread legs, an unconscious echo of his usual submissive pose. His back is straight, however, and his gaze fixes unwaveringly on John’s dark blue eyes.

John spreads his arms wide in sardonic invitation. “All right,” he says, his voice calm but deadly serious. “Say your piece.”

“It’s obvious,” Sherlock begins, and then he realises in that moment how much he has grown and changed over the past six years, because--“Me bringing it out in the open, taking it from you, it isn’t right, is it?" He shakes his head. "No. This is something you should share with me freely, of your own volition. I won’t force it out of you. You’ve never shared much about your life before the Army. I’ve never asked. And I won’t take it from you.” Sherlock stands, backs a step away, puts distance between himself and John. “But it’s not fair, you know.”

“What, exactly, isn’t fair?” John asks, eyes crinkling in suspicious confusion.

“You treat me like I’m the damaged one,” Sherlock says slowly, pacing across the width of the room, understanding breaking over him like a wave. “You treat me like you’re the responsible adult, the one who has to care for someone needy and weird and broken. And I let you. I like it, I do. I admit that freely. But…” Sherlock ruffles his hair in frustrated irritation. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? It’s also about how you want to see yourself, and that’s not fair. You make me out to be damaged so you can be the good one, the moral one, the caretaker. And it’s not fair.”

That’s not true, Sherlock,” John says, low and calm but with an unmistakable undercurrent of anger. “It’s not.”

An epiphany strikes Sherlock and he stops pacing, a flash of emotional insight hitting him with the force of a blow. He turns to John, eyes wide with realization. “It’s not just about being better than _him,_ is it?”

“Sherlock, don’t,” John exhales. “You’re getting into dangerous waters here. Just stop it.”

Something feels sharp and hot in his chest, like a swallowed bit of bone.

“It’s about being better than me,” Sherlock snaps, suddenly angry. “Isn’t it? As long as you don’t give in to the impulses that frighten you, then you hold yourself above it. As long as you don’t give in completely, I’m the freak and you’re the one who’s putting up with it, and you’re _better than me._ ”

John’s face shutters, his expression stony as he stands abruptly.

“No,” he says between clenched teeth, his left hand clenching and unclenching. “I’m not doing this.” He pushes past Sherlock to grab his jacket from the wall hook.

Sherlock stands rooted to the spot. He feels ill. He didn’t mean to go this far, he truly didn’t, but he won’t take it back because somehow, for once, he inadvertently stumbled on an emotional truth and he won’t take it back, he can’t and now John’s angry, he’s going to _leave_ \--

John shrugs on his jacket, looks up at Sherlock’s stricken face. His lips twist, a fleeting microexpression of suppressed pain. He holds a hand up and takes a half step forward, as if in supplication.

“Sherlock. I’m not leaving, okay? I just... I need to take a walk, is all.”

“Please don’t,” Sherlock says, and although the words are pleading his voice is flat. “I hate when you do this.”

“I’m sorry,” John says. “But I just need some air.”

And then he’s gone, leaving the flat echoingly empty behind him.

He and John fight more than occasionally, yelling and stomping and hurling of insults, and Sherlock never minds. Sometimes he even enjoys a good fight. He yells, John yells, everyone waves their ridiculous anger around for awhile and then it’s over and everyone feels better. It’s cleansing, cathartic. Usually the sex after is fairly spectacular as well.

But this--this clumsy, unintentional poking of a painful wound, some abscessed pocket of poisonous emotion--this is far worse than any loud rowing could ever be. 

This is just empty and sad and terrible, and the worst part of it is Sherlock knows that he wasn’t even really in the wrong. There was a grain of truth in Sherlock’s words, maybe more than a grain, and it hurts. It really hurts.

There are cigarettes in the toe of the Persian slipper. Sherlock shakes one out, takes it into the kitchen, lights it off the hob. 

As usual, the smoke is stale and disappointing and it doesn’t fix anything.

***

Here’s a key difference between thirty and forty: at forty, one will inevitably fall asleep if one stretches out on the sofa, no matter how much one is brooding and stewing in angry frustration over one’s arsehole fiance.

Sherlock relearns this lesson when he startles awake, disoriented, as John’s hand on his shoulder gently shakes him. 

“Go ‘way,” he grumbles, jerking his shoulder away from the touch and turning onto his side, pointedly turning his back to John.

John sighs and lowers himself down to sit on the floor next to the sofa. “Sherlock. Look. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have walked out. That was wrong of me.” He sighs heavily. “Avoiding the difficult stuff--it’s not my best quality, is it.”

“No,” Sherlock mumbles into the cushion. “It’s really not.”

“Come to bed with me,” John asks softly, stretching out a hand to rub gentle circles in the maroon silk covering Sherlock’s immobile shoulder.

“I’m fine out here,” Sherlock says flatly.

“Please, love. It’s almost two in the morning, the sofa makes your back sore, and I am sorry. Truly I am. Please. Come to bed.”

Sherlock’s resolve falters; he hates sleeping without John, and his back hates sleeping on the sofa all night. “Fine,” he grumbles tiredly, getting to his feet and making his way back to the bedroom, making sure not to spare John so much as a passing glance.

***

A short while later, Sherlock is curled into a tight ball under the sheets, trying and failing to recapture elusive slumber when John speaks again, low and gentle.

“You were right about a lot of things. But I don’t think I’m better than you. Not for one second. Not ever. You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, the most brilliant and beautiful man in the world, and I would never think I was above you in any way.” John pauses for a moment, and when he continues, his voice wavers just the tiniest bit. “Do you think I could hold you? You don’t have to, but it would make the things I’m going to talk about a bit easier.”

John’s quiet plea makes Sherlock feel like his heart might really break for him so he turns, stretches himself out, arranges himself in John’s welcoming arms. He lays his head on John’s bare torso, hears the steady thrum of his heartbeat under his ear.

“I... ” John starts uncertainly, then stops. Takes another deep breath. “When you said you wouldn’t deduce me, before. What if... what if I wanted you to, because it’s easier that way. Would you do that for me?”

The last wisps of self-righteous anger dissipate, and Sherlock feels something sharp twist in him at the idea that John, strong brave sturdy John, is so unnerved, so undone that he needs Sherlock to speak for him. But this is something Sherlock can do, something he can give to him, so he wraps a long arm around his warm, slightly soft belly and plants a small kiss to his ribcage at the fifth intercostal space.

“You grew up just barely hanging on to the lower middle class,” Sherlock murmured. “Your dad had a decent enough job, something white collar, likely management, but he had little ambition to move up and watched his peers pass him by. He insisted your mother stay home instead of work. She resented it. He drank a lot, mostly in pubs, further compromising family finances. They fought a lot. About money, mostly, but also about the drinking and your father’s lack of ambition. He had a temper and a violent streak. He started to hit her, relatively infrequently, but when he did the beatings were brutal.

“You were your father’s favorite child when you were younger; Harry was always difficult and was fairly obviously gay by twelve or thirteen, and it enraged your father. When you got old enough you got in between the two of them, and you began to take the brunt of your father’s ire. He violently disapproved of her homosexuality, and likely tried to ‘beat it out of her’ on more than one occasion. You intervened, protecting your sister even though you were smaller and younger, leaving you with festering resentment and Harry with crippling guilt.

“Both you and Harry left the day after graduating secondary school. For you the Army was the quickest route out of your parents’ house and you took it gratefully.

“He died while you were in Afghanistan; had a seizure at the wheel, likely alcohol-related, and crashed headfirst into a tree. You hadn’t spoken to him in twelve years. I didn’t deduce that bit, you told me the year of his death and I looked it up on the internet. Your mum lives alone in a pensioner’s flat; you’re not technically estranged but you seldom speak. She knows you’re in a relationship with a man but pretends she doesn’t because while she’s not offended by the idea she finds it uncomfortable to discuss. That part, Harry told me once when she turned up half-pissed after a visit with her that didn’t go well.”

Sherlock stops talking, takes in a lungful of air. His words hang in the space between them.

John’s breathing is shallow, a bit ragged. Finally he speaks.

“He put me in hospital once,” John says softly. “Fractured skull. With a brass candlestick, of all things. I got in between him and Harry. I couldn’t let him... I told the doctor I got jumped by some kids I didn’t know. He knew I was lying but he couldn’t do anything about it.”

Sherlock just holds him, silent, giving him the safe space he needs to talk.

“He pushed us all around for years. There was no getting away from it. He was a mean, controlling man and I hated him. I hate him. And I’m like him in so many ways..my short temper. My violent streak. I got those from him. And when…” John stops, takes a deep breath, pushes ahead. “And when you’re on your knees, looking up at me and I could do anything to you? I feel powerful in a way I never have before in my whole life, when I’m controlling you. I like that feeling. I like it a lot. Maybe too much. I didn’t expect that, and it scares me.”

Sherlock rolls onto his side, props himself up. “John, listen to me.” He leans in, kisses John gently but firmly. “Just because you like what we do doesn’t make it wrong. You have a need. I have a need. We meet each others’ needs, and there is nothing wrong with that.” He drops his head down to John’s chest, kisses the spidery white scar on his shoulder. “You are not him. You are not like him. You’re not. You’re mine, just like I’m yours, and I trust you.”

“I want you to,” says John. “I want to deserve your trust, always.”

Sherlock kisses John again, just a gentle press of lips against the warm skin of his chest. “I do. I trust you with anything, but I don’t want this to upset you. We can let this go.” He looks up again into John’s face, shadowed in the semi dark of the bedroom. “This isn’t important. Your happiness means far more to me.”

John looks at him, eyes large and uncertain in the gloom. Is he relieved or disappointed? Sherlock can’t tell.

“I should have told you all this long ago,” John said. “This is really, really hard for me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock, suddenly needing to let him off the hook, to close this open wound he has so carelessly opened. He lays his head back down on John’s strong chest. “I know who you are. It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does,” John says, almost too softly to hear, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to answer that so he doesn’t.

***

The following day is January 5, the day before Sherlock’s birthday, and he’s combating the post-Christmas lull in cases by testing drying rates by colour of the four leading brands of nail polish--the nail salon homicides had proven unexpectedly fascinating--while John goes out to do the shopping, claiming the fumes are giving him a headache and making sure to open a window on his way out.

He is working his way methodically through the corals when his text alert beeps.

_**Okay.** _

Sherlock’s mouth suddenly feels bone dry. As forward as he had been about his wishes, in this moment of truth he feels uncertain, horribly exposed and anxious.

_**Okay. As in, last night’s conversation okay? -SH** _

_**Yes.** _

_**Are you certain? -SH** _

_**Yes.** _

He had wanted this, and now it is on the cusp of becoming real. He realises he has changed the parameters of their game in a fundamental way, and he suddenly feels threatened somehow, like he has foolishly blundered out of the safety of what he knows so well into something unfamiliar and terrifying.

 _Calm down,_ he tells himself sternly. Really. This is a ridiculous overreaction to a swat on the bum. But still, he feels more than a bit panicky, and is on the brink of texting back and telling him to forget the whole thing, when John saves him from his own uncertainty.

_**Half an hour. I expect you to be ready for me. On your knees, facing the bed. Naked.** _

_**And crack another window. Or three. Before you give yourself brain damage.** _

With the burden of decision making lifted from his shoulders, Sherlock feels immeasurably lighter. All that’s required of him now is to obey; John will take care of everything else. John will take care of him.

John always takes very good care of him.

Sherlock does as he is told, carefully opening windows on his way to the shower.

***

He’s waiting as John instructed, knees on the rug, facing towards the bed so he will hear John long before he sees him. He’s scrubbed clean and still just a bit damp, his slightly overlong hair drying naturally into the mop of frizzy ringlets that John loves; Sherlock hates them, feels unkempt and juvenile, but that doesn’t matter right now. _Sherlock_ doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is pleasing John, and if that means riotous curls, then so be it.

On this short winter day, the grey afternoon light is beginning to slip into dusk although it’s only sometime past four. As the shadows lengthen he makes no move to turn on the lamp, content to wait in the dark. He already feels himself slipping away, the endless ceaseless chatter of his brain beginning to slow, beginning to quiet as he begins to slip away to that different place, the place he occupies on his knees. It should scare him, he thinks vaguely, almost bemusedly. He should be horrified at his eagerness to fall at John’s feet, to give up his power and control, to leave the cornerstone of his identity behind and become this different being altogether, a creature that exists entirely for submission and pleasure.

Sherlock knows it should terrify him. It doesn’t. He welcomes it, eagerly. He sometimes wishes he could live here. It’s all so much quieter. Simpler. 

He has peace, here, of a sort he’s never before known.

He hears John’s deliberate footfalls as he ascends the steps, the rustle of plastic as he sets bags on the counter, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door as he places milk and orange juice inside. He makes the conscious choice to stop observing, stop anticipating, to empty his mind and just exist, bowing his head and closing his eyes. Just wait, and enjoy knowing John is here, John is coming to him soon, so very soon--

The bedroom door opens and closes. The bedside lamp clicks on. A warm rough hand cards gently through his hair.

“My good boy,” John murmurs from behind him, and reaches for the side table drawer. He finds his collar and fastens it quickly with one practiced hand, stroking and petting his hair with the other. He sinks down carefully to his knees behind Sherlock, presses his clothed body into his back. The friction of fabric against his naked skin is delightful, makes a shiver run down his spine.

“I was afraid, and I shouldn’t have been,” John breathes into his ear. ”If you trust me, I will trust you.” He kisses the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, bites him there gently. “You were right. I was keeping myself from you, and I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I owe you a thousand apologies for that. And I will offer every one of them to you, I will. Later. But for now…” he slides his hands around to Sherlock’s chest, sweeps thumbs briefly across his nipple before pinching both of them, hard, making Sherlock gasp and arch in pain. “You need something from me, don’t you?” he asks, low and rough.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock gasps, trying not to whimper as John’s fingernails dig into his sensitive flesh. He can visualise the tiny moon-scaped crescents where the skin will go white from pressure then turn dark red, later.

“What do you want, pet?” John breathes. “ I need to hear it.”

“I want you to hurt me,” Sherlock pleads. “I want you to hit me.”

“I’ve been holding back from you,” John says solemnly. “But that’s done now.” He releases Sherlock’s nipples, soothes them with gentle sweeps of his fingers. “Listen to me, pet. We’re moving the safeword up to a traffic light. Red is still stop, yellow is slow down but don’t stop, green is all good. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nods dreamily, and John’s left fingers grab his nipple and twist it hard. The pain is shocking, a lightning bolt of sensation that explodes in his brain, white and lovely.

“Yes,” he gasps. “I understand.”

“Say it back to me.”

“Red. Yellow. Green.” Sherlock answers, eyes closed, his voice sounding distant and remote even to himself.

“Good boy,” John murmurs, sliding his hands down Sherlock’s torso, the front of his thighs. He cups his testicles gently in one hand, strokes his already-stiff cock with the other, his thumb brushing gently across the wet slit.

“You’re so hard for me already,” he purrs against a naked shoulder blade. “You gorgeous desperate thing, on your knees for me. Jesus. You turn me on so much like this. I can hardly stand it.” His fingers wrap more tightly around Sherlock’s flushed cock, pulls him firmly once, twice. Sherlock moans, pushing against the circle of his fist.

“Soon,” John murmurs. “Soon. But not yet.”

John releases him and kisses the crest of his shoulder as he stands, moves to the edge of the bed and sits. He reaches out, grabs a handful of dark curls. “Look at me,” he orders, his voice dropping into the darker registers of dominance.

Sherlock obeys, looking up into John’s eyes, his enormous pupils surrounded by a rim of stormy blue.

“You need this,” John says, voice ragged with lust. “I need this. But not in anger. Never in anger. Do you understand?”

“Yes, John.”

“Come here.” John pulls him up hard by his hair, hauling him into his lap. Sherlock struggles awkwardly to comply, knees aching, half-asleep lower legs a shower of pins and needles. John brusquely arranges the long length of his body across his knees, legs resting on the bed on John’s left side, his elbows and forearms to the right, arse over his lap. 

John spreads his legs just slightly, shifts Sherlock’s body forward a bit until he’s tipped just slightly forwards, a bit off balance, his cock nudged into the space between John’s clothed thighs. He can’t help but groan and wiggle a bit at the delicious feel of rough denim against his cock. John presses a warning hand into his back.

“Make all the noise you want, but you will stay still for me,” he growls. “Or I’ll tie you up and fuck your mouth all night long and not touch you once. I’m fine with that.”

Sherlock whimpers a little in dark arousal at that thought but forces himself into stillness, denies his body’s insistent demand for friction, for pressure.

“Sweet boy,” murmurs John in a softer tone. “Poor thing. You need it so badly, don’t you? Such a dirty little slut, so desperate for it.” His right hand rubs gentle circles in Sherlocks’ lower back. “You need me, baby, don’t you? You need me to make you feel so good.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes out, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please. I need you.”

“I’ll make it all better,” John murmurs. “I haven’t taken good care of you, and I’m sorry. But I’ll make up for it. I promise.” His left hand comes down on the round of his arse, warm fingers kneading the soft flesh. Sherlock fights desperately to stay still and obedient as John breathes in, exhales, deliberately draws out his anticipation.

“Twenty, I think, to start,” John finally says, and brings his left hand down hard, just above the crease of his buttock.

He hears the sound of it before the blow registers, and for a split second he believes it surprisingly, disappointingly painless; then a burst of stinging hot fire blooms bright, and he makes a cry of surprise. The next follows immediately, a matching smack on his right cheek, and then another on the full swell of the left.

John doesn’t hold back, doesn’t soften the blows, and the fierce burning pain of them is a revelation. Sherlock moans and cries out as his strokes land steadily, one after another, the sound of flesh hitting flesh loud in his ears. He struggles to keep his body still, but the kinetic force of each smack rocks his body across John’s lap, providing delicious friction against his hard prick and sensitive balls, flooding his body with hot desperate pleasure.

Sherlock’s entire arse is on fire by the tenth stroke when John pauses, rubs the burning flesh, making him gasp at the raw stinging pain. 

“You’re doing so well,” he says with tender approval. “I’m so proud of you.” He kisses the dip of his lower back, licks away the drop of sweat pooled there. “You look so fucking beautiful right now, with your gorgeous arse all marked and red.” He pinches the swell of his left cheek, hard, making Sherlock gasp. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Sherlock moans, his voice thick and deep. “It hurts so much.”

"Good," John says. “Give me a color.” 

Sherlock’s mind is blank; he can’t remember what he’s supposed to say, and John digs his nails hard into injured flesh, making him cry out in surprise and pain. “Answer me, pet.”

“Ahhh-- green,” he gasps. “Green, oh, please, I want more--”

“You are a greedy thing, aren’t you?” John murmurs with a dark fondness, and hits him again.

Ten more and Sherlock’s floating, completely outside of himself, lost to the burning heat and the pain and the shameful pleasure of it. He’s whimpering and keening, heedless of the high desperate cries he’s making, and when John stops again every nerve in his entire body is on fire.

“Color,” John growls, deep and hoarse, sharp gravel scraping against bare skin.

“Green,” Sherlock sobs, a strangled hitching noise. 

John lets go of Sherlock’s hair, and brings his hand to Sherlock’s mouth.

“Lick,” he orders, and Sherlock opens his mouth, swipes the proffered palm with long sweeps of his wet tongue.

“You’ll like this, you little pain slut,” John says, and swats him soundly with his spit-wet hand.

The sting is amplified tenfold, and Sherlock can’t help the strangled wail he makes.

“Count it out,” John orders him. 

“One,” Sherlock rasps.

The strokes come slower this time, but even harder, his body pitching forward with the force of each blow. Sherlock counts them out, his voice deep and hoarse, counts even as he swims in a red haze of pain and need, the fabric of John’s jeans rubbing against his desperately aching cock with every blow. He surrenders himself to the overwhelming tide of sensation, the dark and magical place where pleasure and pain overlap and become something exponentially greater, the endorphins and opiate analogs flooding his body. He’s incredibly high, soaring on something he never even knew he needed, something no needle could ever, ever match.

John delivers nine more forceful blows, and by the last of them tears are running freely down Sherlock’s face unheeded as he cries and shivers uncontrollably.

“Ten,” he gasps out, and John drops his arm, kisses his hair, the bony knobs of his spine.

“Shh, baby, shh,” he murmurs soothingly. “That’s enough. You did so well, you took it so beautifully, my gorgeous creature. You’re so good for me, I’m so very proud of you.” His fingers brush the hair from the nape of his neck and trail down his back, warm lips press the base of his neck. “Give me a color, pet.”

 _Yellow,_ Sherlock thinks. No. He wants more. He wants everything John can give him. “Green.”

“All right.” John kisses him again. “You’ve been so good for me, so very good. You deserve a reward, I think.”

Sherlock moans, low and desperate, and tries desperately not to thrust against John’s lap, to be stay still, to be good, but he’s so hard, God, he’s so hard, he’s never needed to come so badly in his life--

John laughs, a predatory sound, and grabs his arse cheek, digs rough fingers into the abused flesh. “I want to see you come like this,” John murmurs. “Rutting against me, so desperate you’ll do anything for it. I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He’s never felt so exposed, so humiliated in his need and base desire, and the sensation of it almost makes him come at that very moment.

“Yes,” he gasps. “Like this. Please, yes, let me--”

John shoves two fingers in his mouth. “Get them nice and wet,” he growls, “Because that’s all you’re getting.” Sherlock sucks desperately at his fingers, lips and chin growing wet with saliva, until John pulls them away suddenly and pushes them hard into Sherlock’s unprepared arse.

He arches and howls at the sharp sudden fullness, the rough friction smoothed with only his spit, and the violence of it sends hot sparking shivers of pained pleasure through his body. John fucks him roughly with one hand as the other at the small of his back, pinning him down.

“Do it,” John growls. “Get yourself off like this, you dirty boy.”

Sherlock gives in to the need burning him alive and moves, thrusting desperately forward against John’s fabric-covered thighs, then pushing back against the fingers fucking his arse open. The desperate filthy shame of it all is brutal, overpowering, and it takes fewer than a dozen thrusts before the molten pleasure explodes inside him and he’s coming with a pained animal moan, spilling hot wetness all over John’s lap, mindless bliss overloading every neuron. John gentles his thrusting, presses expertly against his prostate, and another wave of orgasm washes over him, the spasms of pleasure shading into pain as his body pulses again and again.

He’s still shaking and whimpering when John withdraws his fingers. “Christ, you’re so beautiful right now,” he murmurs reverently, kissing the small of his back. “Watching you come apart like that for me, God, baby, I have to fuck you now, I can’t even--”

Sherlock is gasping, limp and boneless, as John rearranges his body, easily manhandling him face down onto the bed, sliding a pillow under his hips, spreading his legs apart. Aftershocks are still singing through his nerve endings when Sherlock distantly hears the sound of a drawer opening and the rustle of clothing; his post-orgasmic haze is still transmuting pain into pleasure as John’s cock pushes into him easily, a hot full delicious slide into the very core of his body.

“I love taking you like this,” John breathes, his voice ragged and hoarse, “You feel so good on my cock, so sweet and easy, so quiet, so good for me. My perfect fucktoy, my perfect pet. God, I want to fuck you like this forever.”

Sherlock moans with bone-deep pleasure, feeling sated and blank and perfectly content to be under his John, happy to be used like this, a perfect pliant thing to be taken and fucked and filled up all night long.

John pulls almost all the way out, teases his sore rim with just the head of his cock. “I love the way your arse looks when you’re opened up for me,” he rasps, “the way you feel when I sink inside you.” He pushes in deep with a low groan. “You were made for me to fuck you,” he gasps. “You were put on this earth just for this, just to take my cock, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” breathes Sherlock, “Oh, God, yes,” and in this endorphin-fueled moment, with everything outside this bed forgotten, and John deep inside him, it feels absolutely right and true and perfect.

John fucks him slow and deep like that for ages, and their bedroom is silent but for their moans and sighs and the sound of flesh sliding against flesh.

After many long minutes John stills, pulls out of him completely, making him whine a bit at the feeling of emptiness.“I want to see you,” he murmurs, kissing his damp curls. Sherlock rolls to his side and dazedly watches John shuck the rest of clothing and arrange pillows against the headboard, fumble with the bottle of lube, messily re-slick his cock.

“Come get on top of me,” he says and Sherlock obeys, straddling John’s hips with his knees, gasping raggedly as John takes himself in hand and pushes into his open, needy hole. “Oh, God,” he moans softly as Sherlock impales himself on his prick, taking him in easily. “Yes. Ride me. Fuck yourself on my cock like the slut you are.”

Sherlock’s cock stirs to life at the filthy epithet, and he whimpers as he rolls his hips wantonly, grabbing on to the headboard for leverage as he pulls himself up then pushes back down on John, taking him as deeply as he can, the push and the stretch of it beyond pain, becoming a kind of molten, shivery pleasure, as John watches him with heavy, half-lidded eyes

“Jesus, you’re so good,” John breathes. “You’re so good at this, you’re unbelievable, God, you fuck like an Amsterdam whore.” He reaches out blindly toward the table, picks up the half-empty bottle. “Give me your hand,” he says. Sherlock takes one hand off the headboard, and John squeezes a generous dollop of cool slick into Sherlock’s open palm.

“Touch yourself. I want you to come again,” he rasps. “I want to watch you come again for me.”

Sherlock looks at him wide-eyed; he can’t, it’s too soon, he’s sure of it--

“Yes, you can,” John said, “and you will. I want it, and you will give me what i want. Understand?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes, and wraps his wet hand around his twitching, half-hard prick. 

“Just like that,” John murmurs. “So good for me, my sweet pet. You’ll give me anything I want, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasps, fisting his cock. “Anything.”

He doesn’t know if he can come again so soon, if he even wants to, but it doesn’t matter what he wants. He doesn’t get to want anything, except what John wants. The thought of being John’s sexual plaything, his pet, his willing slave--his cock is stiffening nicely, now, at the thought of his submission to John’s will.

John curls a hand around the crest of Sherlock’s slim hip. “I would keep you like this forever,” he breathes. “I would lock you away, tie you up, keep you naked and on your knees for me all the time, make my mouth and hands and cock your whole world. Would you give that to me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpers, low and broken, as he thrusts up into his slicked fist and then grinds himself down hard on John’s cock, reaching a perfect rhythm, a sublime push-pull of pleasure. “Oh, God, yes.”

“I would bathe you and feed you,” John breathes. “I would grow your hair out long so I could brush it and tie it back and pull it hard while I fuck you. I would make you take off my belt with your teeth and beat you with it. I would plug you and gag you and play with you, and not let you come for days at a time. Tell me I can. Tell me I can do those things.”

“Anything you want.” Sherlock moans, the exquisitely dirty words sparking a firestorm of arousal in his belly, the stirrings of an orgasm beginning to build low and hot in his spine. “Everything. You can have everything.”

John’s hand presses hard against his scars, the lines of his name carved into Sherlock’s flesh.

“I want to own you,” he growls, his voice dark with lust.

“You do,” Sherlock cries out brokenly. “You know you do.”

John grabs him hard by the hips. ”I do. I own you, and I want you to come for me.”

Sherlock can feel his back tighten and arch, feel the tendons in his neck straining, but his orgasm hovers just barely out of reach--

“I want it,” snarls John, fucking hard and rough into him. “I want it, it’s mine, now _give it to me._ ”

Sherlock does as he is told, obeys John and lets the climax take him; without the soft candy floss cloud of excess neurotransmitters and endorphins he can feel the individual processes of his body in orgasm, feel his testicles draw up, feel the involuntary rhythmic pulsing of each muscle. 

“Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, I--” and then his body draws up bowstring-tight as he comes again, a fierce, cramping, sharp-edged pleasure that makes him shake and keen as his exhausted cock twitches and spurts a few weak pulses of semen onto John’s belly.

“You’re so good,” John breathes. “So good, Jesus, Sherlock, yes, oh, oh, _fuck_ \--” His words trail off into incoherence as his fingers grab Sherlock’s bony hips hard enough to bruise, thrusting into him three, four more times before he’s coming hard with a low, strangled moan, spilling hot and deep inside him, gasping for air as Sherlock rides him through the shivering aftershocks.

As John’s body quiets and his breathing calms, an exhausted Sherlock slumps bonelessly against his chest, utterly wrung out, empty, a blank slate. After a few moments John gently rolls him to his side; as his now-soft cock slides out of his body, Sherlock can’t help but give a pained gasp at the sudden fierce sting of his abused entrance.

“Yeah, you’re going to hurt all over tomorrow, I bet,” John murmurs. “Are you up for a bath, do you think?”

“No,” Sherlock replies honestly. John laughs.

“I guess not.” He brushes sweaty hair off Sherlock’s forehead and kisses him. “I’m going to get a cool cloth and some lotion for your backside. Also something to drink.”

Sherlock nods and closes his eyes as John slips out of bed.

When he returns, Sherlock obediently drinks a sip of juice before John cleans him up with a cool wet flannel, turning him onto his belly to rub minty lotion into the stinging skin of his arse.

It’s an extraordinarily pleasant sensation. Sherlock loves this part, loves John’s caretaking and tender concern; even if he didn’t enjoy everything else about their game, this part would make it more than worthwhile.

He has a vague sensation of John taking off his collar; he wants to tell him to leave it on, to never take it off again, but he’s asleep before he can fully articulate the thought.

***

He wakes sometime in the middle of the night, curled under the sheets. John is in his old terrycloth dressing gown, reading the latest issue of BMJ, his freshly-washed hair sticking up in damp spikes.

 _How is it possible?_ Sherlock wonders, not for the first time, gazing at his impossibly perfect lover. How can this man next to him--a mild, middle-aged doctor with silvering hair and reading glasses--how can he be the same wild-eyed, filthy-tongued being who dominates him so completely, who owns him so utterly? How can these two beings coexist in the same body? The contradiction of it all, the tangle of mystery that is the hidden, unknowable heart of John Watson--the very idea is overwhelming, complex and beautiful, and Sherlock can’t help but grin in foolish, besotted fondness.

John glances over at him and smiles in return. “Hello there, sweetheart. How do you feel?”

“Rather like I’ve been run over by a lorry.” Sherlock stretches a bit, groans. “A lorry that also had sex with me,” he adds.

John laughs at that. “I’m not sure if I’m disturbed or flattered by that comparison.”

“Go with flattered,” Sherlock says, giving him a small, sleepy smile.

John puts his tablet aside, places his glasses on top, and slides himself down on the bed, arranges himself facing Sherlock. He cups the back of his head, pulls him close and kisses him, warm and sweet and so full of love that Sherlock’s chest feels tight and his eyes threaten tears as he kisses back, meeting John’s gentle tongue with his own.

John pulls back a bit, smiles at him. “Hey. It’s after midnight. Do you feel different, now that you’re forty?”

“I do feel different,” Sherlock tells him. “But I don’t think it’s because I’m forty.”

John’s eyes go soft at that and the’re kissing again, the press of their mouths growing more heated, and Sherlock would absolutely be getting hard again if that was even remotely possible, which it absolutely is not.

He laughs against John’s soft mouth. “You’re trying to kill me, I think.”

John chuckles. “I’m not. You’re just unbelievably hot and I want you all the time. Can’t be helped.” He pulls Sherlock’s body close to his own and they lay like that for a minute, just enjoying their closeness, their shared breath, the beat of their hearts.

Sherlock opens his mouth, reconsiders, closes it again.

“What is it, love?” John asks.

“The... things,” Sherlock says hesitantly. “The things you said, um, before.”

“Did I freak you out?” John asks. “I’m sorry, baby, it was just sex talk, if it got out of hand--”

“No, no,” Sherlock says. “I’m not freaked out.” He burrows closer to John. “I think some of those things, too. Sometimes. About... about wanting to be like that all the time.”

John sighs, mouths at his hair. “Sherlock, that’s not a feasible thing. It’s just fantasy talking. What we do is a part of who you are, and I love that side of you, but there’s so much more to you than that. There’s a whole world outside of Baker Street, and you need that world. That world needs you, too.”

Sherlock nods. “I know. Of course. Out there is…” He waves a hand, encompassing everything in the universe that is not in bed with him right this moment. “But here, in our home… I would be open to... extending the boundaries of what we do. Making it a bigger part of our lives.”

“So that’s on the table now,” muses John. “We would need to talk about this more. A lot more. But I think, yeah, I would be open to something like that.”

Sherlock shivers with a frisson of deep pleasure as John wraps a possessive hand around his neck and presses their foreheads together.

“Thank you, John,” he whispers.

“Happy birthday, my love,” John murmurs in reply.


End file.
